Muse
by Cerulean.Phoenix7
Summary: Life is but a game, and he is the grand master.


Muse

A/N: This is set after the end of 'The Dark Knight' with the Joker presumably incarcerated in Arkham Asylum.

Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Dark Knight' or any of the associated characters, only an overactive imagination: P

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He'd been in the cell for three days when they came for him, shoulders pinned back like butterfly wings in display cases and chests up like apes; they looked ready for war.

They were only three days late.

He found it amusing how they put on this charade of bravado when their eyes gave it all away; no one ever thought of the eyes. The eyes were all fear, all thick black pupils that had spread out in fear.

He let them escort him, only because his battle was won; Gotham had raised her white flag to salute him and he had smiled back at it.

He was a master and madness and destruction were his loyal minions, they always added to the fire that boiled the brew of ideas in his mind. He'd never bothered to scrawl those ideas out on the walls, they were always so much more colourful in his mind.

And when it came to detail, he wasn't willing to haggle over price.

The room they took him to was blandly grey, severely lacking any shade of colour. If they only knew the wonders he could do with the colour red.

The two chairs and only table in the room sat under a column of bright light that set it ablaze like an inferno. He was a moth and they were tempting him to dine at death's dinner table.

Not that that bothered him, he held regular appointments at such a table.

He sat down and placed a hand on the table, such a dull waste of material, why couldn't they make it a little more... bedazzling? He started to drum his fingers against the metal; it produced an empty sound, almost a moan.

He raised his eyes slowly when the door opened; he didn't give them the satisfaction of being surprised because he never was.

The man who walked in looked half dead with a hangover, eyes heavy and chin unshaven. He was expecting someone a little more... intimidating.

The man sat down and folded his hands nonchalantly on the table while the Joker continued to drum his gloved fingers on the table; the man was a typical minion of authority and he had nothing to say to him.

At least nothing _interesting_.

The man shrugged his shoulders lightly; he imagined a cloud of gunpowder trailing off them.

"I used to think that there were certain boundaries that people simply didn't cross, but you've gone beyond pretty much all of them."

"You see that's the problem with boundaries," he answered, "They're there to _be_ crossed."

The man shook his head, his eyes darkening and his brow crinkling, "No, not these."

He didn't answer.

"Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me on your _motivations_," he said, his voice thick with disdain.

He pursed his lips, motivations? No, no, no not even close. They always tried for the most obvious as a process of elimination, not that it did them any good.

He'd brought down Kings and Queens but never a Knight, and Gotham's white Knight was one morsel who he'd eagerly reached his smoky black hand out to.

He was a man of promise.

"You see, I'm a man of my word," he said, "People want fireworks, I give them fireworks. But when I blow up a hospital with tons of little fireworks they look at me like I'm a monster," he leaned forward in his chair, a wicked smile curving along his face. He said with a sly whisper, "So I look at them and say... 'Why so serious?'"

He sat back in his chair, "I'm an agent of chaos... and anarchy is my facilitator."

He'd won over them all... Kings and Queens-not always the ones in plush robes-with something much more appealing than strategy.

The man retrieved a pencil and crinkled sheet of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table, "If you've got something worthwhile to give them they may shave a few years off your sentence, not that it'll make much difference."

He quickly scrawled something on the paper; the best messages were the shortest.

He handed the paper back to him, a smiley face drawn on it.

"What the hell is this?"

"An answer," he said, "I'm a man of my word, so I gave you an answer."

He'd learned that spontaneity was the art behind victory, of which he was a true virtuoso. Why ruin the fun of a decision made in the blink of an eye?

He contemplated this as he twirled the pencil in his hand.

"Wanna see a magic trick?"

"No," the guard answered and moved to the door.

_What a pity_, he thought.

But even as he watched the burly man move towards the door his smile didn't fade, because when the man curled his hand over the door handle he discovered the thumb tack that he'd placed there earlier.

He always kept a few in the soles of his shoes, he'd found that they had multiple uses.

"You crazy asshole!" The guard answered as he covered his bleeding palm.

He laughed then; his maniacal, sneering laugh echoed through the room as the guard left and shut the door.

He fell back onto the floor in hysterics and when he opened his eyes he could see a small window that a sliver of moonlight crept in.

He stood and walked over, his laughter now gone and looked out the small window. Gotham stood in the distance, covered in the bright blood of the moon as spouts of orange burned like watchtowers.

He loved this city, and God was she beautiful in the bleeding moonlight.

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